Don't Look Back
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: "I'm nothing like Mona - and neither are you. I mean…don't you ever…you know…wish things were different?" A series of one-shots that will correspond with every episode of the remaining season. Exploration of Toby's perspective of events happening on screen, as well as some creative license.
1. Honesty Is Such a Lonely Word

_**A/N:** Hello my lovelies. I'm sorry to start something new up once more, but it just occurred to me that I had to do it._

_I recently wrote **Behind Blue Eyes** from Toby's perspective as a double agent._

_Now I am writing this - what I aim to have be a series of one-shots based respectively on the rest of the episodes this season - that takes a different spin on things. Not necessarily evil!Toby, but most certainly a more disturbed, more vulnerable Toby that truly belongs on the A-Team._

_Don't worry your pretty heads, however - There will be loads of ambivalence and mixed feelings to deal with._

_So anywho, here is my first installment! Enjoy!_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

_**MISERY LOVES COMPANY (3x16)**_

_...  
_

_But when I want sincerity_  
_ Tell me where else can I turn_  
_ Cause you're the one that I depend upon_

_ Honesty is such a lonely word_  
_ Everyone is so untrue_  
_ Honesty is hardly ever heard_  
_ And mostly what I need from you_

_("Honesty" - Billy Joel)_

* * *

He had said it was too soon. Had insisted that it was not the right time. But as always, what Mona wanted – Mona got. She had clearly taken matters into her own hands when Toby's version of "I'll take care of it" proved to be inadequate.

It was no coincidence that Spencer had so easily happened upon his Radley orderly ID when he had gone to great lengths to ensure that she wouldn't. It had been stashed carefully between his mattress and box spring for weeks. There was no way Spencer could have found it herself – Mona was the only explanation. She had to have known that he was taking his sweet ass time revealing himself, as they had planned to do. Had to have known that he was feeling ambivalent about the entire thing. Somehow, she knew. _She always fucking knew_.

It wasn't enough that he was struggling with a thousand emotions day in and day out. She had to test him. Just like she tested _everyone_. She just _knew_ in that dark twisted mind of hers that he was uncertain about what he wanted. That he had been struggling with the implications of what was to come. That his loyalty was faltering.

On the one hand, he had wanted Spencer to know. The guilt that came with deceiving her had been overwhelming him for the better part of the year. It was better to do his job from a distance, without feeling like he was fooling a lovesick girl into thinking he was innocent. It was too heart-wrenching – too confusing.

But on the other hand…He had not been prepared for the way she had looked at him. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. She and her friends may have been secretive and suspicious – maybe even manipulative to a certain degree – but she had actually loved him.

Nobody had ever loved him. The only person who had even come close was his mother – but even she couldn't have loved him all that much if she had chosen to take her own life eight years ago and leave her only child alone.

How could he rationalize breaking someone's heart the very same way that his had been broken? Especially when it was someone who had gone to great lengths to prove that she would never repeat the terrible pattern of disappointment he had endured all his life?

He was furious. With whom, he was not sure. About what, he was not sure. All he knew was that the blood boiling in his veins was precariously increasing with every moment – and he felt sorry for the person who would be the first to feel his wrath.

So when he slammed the door of his loft open, Mona's triumphant face staring at him from across the kitchen only fueled the fire more.

"What did you do?" he demanded through gritted teeth. He was peeling the black hoodie off of his body now, as though burned by everything it entailed.

"What needed to be done," she answered coolly, gesturing to the dining room table.

A candlelight dinner, complete with a bottle of wine and two unused glasses. It took him a moment to understand what this meant – that it was not something Mona had conjured – and when he did, he felt an inexplicable tug on his heartstrings.

"She was here all afternoon setting this up for your anniversary," Mona explained, taking a seat at one of the empty chairs. She began to calmly pour herself a generous helping of the red wine, coyly looking at him over the rim of her glass. "Poetic…isn't it?"

Toby could not put the pieces of the puzzle together fast enough. The wheels were turning rapidly in his brain, but he could hardly make sense of how things had possibly unfolded this way. Mona seemed to sense this, for she set her wine aside and stared at him expectantly, talking to him as though he were an insolent child.

"She didn't _actually_ have an award dinner for her father, Toby. She was lying. Just like she always does – like _they_ always _do_."

But it wasn't about those kinds of lies. It never had been. Those were different. They were innocent and well intentioned. But Mona had been so jaded for so very long that this distinction was anything but apparent to her.

"You planted the ID for her to find," he accused, taking a step closer to her. He was clenching the hoodie in his hand now, and it seemed to be pulsating with a life of its own. "I told you it was too soon."

"And I told _you_," Mona began loudly, slamming one hand on the table. Her eyes were flashing wildly. "YOU DON'T CALL THE SHOTS."

"Then who does?" Toby challenged, leaning against the table beside her to look her dead in the eyes.

Mona did not even flinch under his glare. She merely took another sip of her wine and quietly replied, "We've been over this a million times. But I suppose your thick Neanderthal brain needs to hear it on repeat for it to sink in."

The rage was bubbling in his stomach now, so intense that he feared he would spontaneously combust. Furiously, he threw the hoodie at her, which she only barely caught.

"There's no one else. No one! Admit it – you're just as scared of _us_ as you are of _them_. You act like there's someone above you – someone barking orders – so that you don't have to own up to anything you've done!"

If the manner in which he was hollering in her face gave her pause, she did not indicate it. Instead she leaned in as well, her face inches from his, to prove her own dominance.

"None of this is any of your concern. You're still on probation for that stunt you pulled last spring."

He squared his jaw, having already expected her to bring this up. She _always _brought it up.

Her eyes were burning daggers into him now, and he could not help but shrink slightly under her malevolent gaze. "Next time you start questioning your loyalty, it won't just be your arm that I break."

He wanted to say something – anything – to counter this threat. Perhaps take that glass of wine and shatter it across her face – shove the bottle down her throat until she choked and fell lifelessly to the floor. But there was nothing he _could _say, and nothing he could _do_. He was well aware that Mona did not throw her weight around lightly. If she wanted to hurt him, she would make it happen. And he would never see it coming.

So when he recoiled hesitantly into a standing position once more, she plastered a wicked, emotionless smile across her face, gently handing the hoodie back to him. After a moment he accepted it with some chagrin, his jaw still squared disapprovingly.

"What I need you to do now is take care of damage control with our favorite little hermaphrodite," she said softly, as though nothing had happened. "He's having difficulty keeping that mouth of his shut."

Toby inhaled sharply as he quietly pulled the hoodie back on. When it was in place once more, he found that he had calmed, but only in slight.

"I'll take care of it."

He spent the entire walk fuming. How dare she speak to him that way? What gave her the power, anyway? Wasn't that the point of this clandestine collaboration in the first place? To give a great big 'fuck you' to the mere concept of social hierarchies and entitled bitches that thought they could control everything and everyone they came across?

She was deviating more and more from their purpose each day. And it was going to come back to bite her in the ass, sooner or later. And Toby vowed to himself that he would be there to watch her crumble.

It wasn't hard to find Lucas. He was creeping suspiciously around the school, like he usually did. Dealing out test answers and taking money to change grades. Toby watched quietly from a distance as his latest customer took their leave, and then he closed in.

Lucas did not notice him in time. He cried out in alarm as Toby grabbed him roughly by the collar and pulled him into the shadows.

"What? What is it now?" Lucas demanded impatiently. There was a hint of fear etched on his baby-face features, but he was fighting tooth and nail to hold it in as much as humanly possible. "Come to finish what you started the other night with the SUV?"

Toby glowered. That was one of the many instances where he had obeyed Mona's orders in a half-assed manner. He could have easily run Lucas down – he was no match for him on that damn skateboard – but he was not – and never planned to be – a killer.

"Mona says you're running your mouth again," Toby accused darkly. He had Lucas pressed up against the side of the building, one single strong-arm against his chest to hold him there. "You know how much she hates that."

Lucas scoffed, but it came out sounding shuddery and somewhat frightened. "Don't worry," he muttered. "I didn't tell them anything about _you_."

This caught Toby by surprise. He backed away quickly, releasing Lucas in the process, as he thought this over.

"Why?" he demanded at last, suspiciously narrowing his eyes. In some ways, Lucas was no better than Mona. He knew how to outwit the both of them regularly – it was his strongest asset, and the primary reason he remained standing.

"Because," Lucas laughed bitterly. "This isn't the life you want to live, either. I get it, okay? I get it better than anyone."

A cold shiver ran down Toby's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature in the crisp night air.

"You don't know anything about me," he argued after a moment. He strived to come up with an additional dispute, but could think of nothing.

Lucas was rubbing the burgeoning bruise on his chest impatiently, shaking his head in Toby's direction. "But I do. I'm nothing like Mona – and neither are you. " He took a deep breath and let it out shakily. "I mean…don't you ever…you know…wish things were different?"

This statement all but paralyzed him. He thought of the look of complete despair on Spencer's face tonight. The frightened shrieks of Emily's girlfriend after finding out that her tire had been slashed. The fact that the day he'd had sex with Spencer was the most alive he had ever felt in his entire life. The longest he had ever been able to ignore the role he played in all of this. This inordinate chaos…this outrageously obsolete game.

Lucas's words somehow stung more than the welt Spencer had left on his cheek earlier. The physical discomfort of being slapped, he could deal with – but the undeniable way that Lucas had poked at his psyche was something else all together.

"All the time," he murmured at last, his eyes never leaving Lucas's face.

The silence settled between them for a moment, before Lucas spoke again.

"I would never tell anyone, Toby," he said quietly. It was almost a whisper. "Not when I know exactly what it feels like to hate yourself every time you look in the mirror."

If Toby thought that what Lucas said before had hurt, it was nothing compared to this.

This was not where he imagined he'd be a year and a half ago. But Mona had so cleverly wormed her way into his feeble, vulnerable mind after he returned to Rosewood…after Emily had looked at him like a monster at Homecoming and had refused to speak to him for days thereafter.

Mona had been expectantly waiting for him outside the school that night after the dance, her arms crossed diligently over her chest as she leaned against his motorcycle.

"Hurts," she had mumbled knowingly with a smirk, "doesn't it?"

He had not replied.

"I know how to make it go away," she had whispered cryptically.

He had fought her advances at first. Had insisted that he was changed – that he did not want to be the person he used to be.

"Oh, but Toby," she had insisted darkly, "you will _always_ be that person. The person that people shrink away from while crossing the street. The person that makes their blood run cold in fear." She had tilted her head, then, thoughtfully gazing at him under the cloudy sky. "I can help you. I'm the only one who understands you."

Before he knew it, he was drinking the Kool-Aid and following orders. He barely had time to blink, it happened so fast. Mona deserved to go down in history as one of the most cunning, manipulative cult leaders of all time.

"It's too late for that," he muttered at last. Lucas lowered his eyebrows inquisitively. "Spencer knows."

Lucas said nothing. He merely diverted his gaze to the ground, suddenly quite interested in his own feet.

And then, something occurred to Toby. Something that he knew he would regret as soon as he said it. But he knew that he would have to do it – _need_ to do it – if there was any hope of redemption for him.

"Go," he muttered at last. Lucas raised his eyes once more, looking somehow more terrified than he had all night.

"What?"

"Get out of here. Get out of Rosewood and don't look back."

Lucas was looking around surreptitiously now, his eyes shifting in every which direction, as if waiting for someone to jump him.

"It's not too late for you," Toby insisted, feeling suddenly and inexplicably choked up. "Go. Before I change my mind."

There was a moment in which he and Lucas shared an unspoken understanding. Lucas pitied him – that was nothing new. But it was something different – something…almost endearing. He looked at him for a minute, as though conveying silent gratitude and hopes for better things and better days to come. The promise of a new horizon and a chance to start over.

Hope for _him_.

And then, it was gone – and so was Lucas. He had hesitated at first, backing away slowly – then quickened his jog once he was far enough away and realized he would not be followed. Toby watched him disappear into the night, trying with all his might not to feel sorry for himself.

He would have given anything to be Lucas in that moment. To have the opportunity to run – to get away. Mona had never particularly believed in Lucas to start with, and therefore was more or less unfazed when he played his disappearing acts. Toby, however – she _needed_ him. She had chosen him for a reason – he was of a very particular use to her. And she would be damned if she let him go that easily.

It was why she had loosened the scaffolding upon which he was working. It was why she severed his brake lines. Any time his conviction faltered, she was right there – waiting to cut him down once more and remind him of who was boss. Of who called the shots.

…Remind him that she was all he had.

He looked up at the sky as he walked quietly back to his loft. What he was looking for, he wasn't sure. A sign, maybe. Some kind of glaringly obvious signal about what to do – about what would come next for him.

And then, he stopped. In the middle of the street, he paused – slowly, silently, he pulled the hood away from his face. Something strange had occurred to him. Something that hadn't crossed his mind in a long, long time. Not since his mother had died.

He felt instantly foolish for doing it. But he did it anyway.

For the first time in eight years, he looked up at the sky and attempted to talk to the incorporeal, disembodied being that people had invested thousands of lifetimes of belief into.

"God," he whispered to himself. "If you can hear me…I – I need your help. Tell me what to do."

There was no response. He wasn't sure why he had expected one in the first place, to be honest. Praying had never worked for him as a child, and it stood to reason that it would not do so now.

Instead, all he felt was the vibrating in his pants pocket. Extracting his phone, he saw that it was Mona calling him.

It was always Mona. It would always be Mona. No matter where he turned. She would forevermore be the only person that would give him the answers he needed. The only person that would ever give him something to do – some sort of purpose to live by.

Sure, she was an insufferable bitch. And of course he wanted to throttle her half the time. But she was _all he had_ now.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. To wipe away all of the useless emotions he had been feeling. This was who he was now. Questioning it only made his life more difficult. More confusing. And that was the last thing he needed.

Carefully, with one hand, he pulled the hood back over his head – where it belonged – and lifted the phone to his ear.


	2. Anywhere's Better Than Here

_**A/N:** Sorry this took so long to post. There was very little material to work with last week, as Toby did not appear in the episode whatsoever (besides the Alison flashback.) This probably isn't my greatest work, but blame the writers. They stuck me with crap, haha. _

_All right. So this installment is from last week's episode, and I will write one later this week to make up for tonight's episode._

_Sorry it has all come so late. I've had a very difficult week…my power was shut off, my internet went out for a couple of days, and I had to put my kitty to sleep on Thursday after four months of trying to cure him of a very debilitating disease. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, without a doubt. I don't mean to bore you with my personal life, but I'm having a very hard time with it. I miss him so much and have been feeling incredibly guilty for not being able to get him through this painful chapter in his life._

_I'd like to thank **Courtney Marie** for helping me brainstorm this installment. Some of the ideas in here have been adapted from her suggestions, and I want to make sure I credit her._

_Onward._

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

_**OUT OF THE FRYING PAN AND INTO THE INFERNO (3x17)**_

...

_What I believed to be true it was only a dream_  
_Believed in me_  
_I just projected it over your beautiful screen_  
_I self medicated my way through this mess that we made_  
_So I could stay_  
_There was nothing, but I waited_  
_I waited_

_This was my mistake_  
_Broken are plans we made_  
_So I will be traveling any place_  
_'Cause anywhere's better than_  
_Here we rest in peace_  
_Rubble beneath the feet_

_I shouldn't have followed you anywhere_  
_Cause anywhere's better than here_

_("Anywhere But Here" - Sick Puppies)  
_

* * *

She smelled fantastic. She always did. It was some sinful combination of coffee and vanilla, and the scent had an inexplicable habit of rendering him borderline useless in any capacity – save one.

Try as he might, he could not remember what had brought him here in the first place. All he knew was that he had, at some point, become putty in her hands. He was succumbing to her advances without so much as batting an eyelash. Though he expected he would regret it in a few hours' time, he had lost the will to dwell on it. The thought had died in the forefront of his brain almost as soon as it had appeared. Only one thing mattered in this chaotic whirlwind of lips and hands: he had missed her terribly.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, savoring the taste and feel of her skin. It was the closest to home that he had ever known.

_She's not your home.__** I'm **__your home. I'm the only one who understands you, remember?_

That tiny voice – Mona's voice – continued to itch at the back of his mind. He knew that this was the opposite of what he should have been doing, but he could not bring himself to care. Spencer had some sort of power over him that could not be defined, and it was the one case in which he did not quite mind losing himself.

He ran his hands up the length of her arms, cupping the bottom of her jaw as their lips found one another. The feeling of her fingertips tracing indiscriminate lines along his spine was all but paralyzing. It was wrong. It was so wrong, after everything that had happened. Some distant part of him feared that they were making an inevitably painful situation much more difficult for themselves.

As he broke for air he was startled to see that someone else had entered the room, staring accusatorily at him from behind Spencer's oblivious form.

And suddenly, his grip ceased to be within his control. Black leather gloves now encased his hands, sending a frigid realization throughout his entire body. Sucking the life out of him, as they always did. Wearing _him_ rather than he wearing _them_.

"No," he breathed.

The newcomer smiled devilishly from her perch on the bed, her eyes devoid of any genuine joy.

His fingers had involuntarily begun to loop themselves around Spencer's neck. Despite how strongly he attempted to fight it, he found himself unable to regain control of his own movements. He was pressing firmly into her windpipe, and could practically feel her oxygen supply being trapped in her throat.

Puppet Master Mona began laughing maniacally from the other side of the room, as Spencer gasped desperately for air…

Toby shot up in bed, a cold sweat having drenched the entirety of his backside. Upon instinct, he wildly looked around to ensure that the events of his dream were exactly that – a _dream_. He was in his own bed, at his own loft, and was one hundred percent alone. No Spencer. No creeper Mona. No one.

Alone – with the exception of his phone continuing to buzz incessantly with Mona's needy calls. He had already ignored her several times this morning, and planned to use the excuse that he had been called into work. Chances were that she would know it was a load of shit. But he didn't particularly care. She needed him – of that he was certain. He was not as expendable to her as she would have him believe.

So when he answered with what some may call a 'moody attitude,' he did not feel bad.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Hello to you, too," she hissed from the other end. "I've been trying to get ahold of you all morning. Where the fuck is Lucas?"

Lucas. Right. He may or may not have had something to do with Lucas skipping town.

"How should I know?" he replied.

"You were the last one to talk to him, Cavanaugh," she said icily. "What did you say to him?"

Part of him knew he should be more concerned about her finding him out. The other part didn't give a shit anymore.

"I told him to stop talking to people he shouldn't be talking to." It was the truth, after all. He _had_ said that.

Mona scoffed heavily. "Well, congratulations. Looks like you scared him off."

So she didn't suspect foul play. That was something, at least.

"Yeah, well," he stated noncommittally.

There was no response. Toby glanced at his phone and found that she had hung up at some point after her final comment. Oh, well. No sweat off his back. He had gotten out of this predicament unscathed thus far, and he planned to keep it that way.

He briefly considered shooting a text to Lucas to give him a heads up. He quickly rejected the idea, certain that Mona had at least one of their phones tapped. It was not in her nature to be trusting, and, despite the paranoia of his notion, it was not something he would put past her.

No sooner had he tossed his cell carelessly to the end of the bed than it began to ring again. He groaned irritably and leaned forward.

Caleb.

Caleb?

What in the name of Jesus Christ himself could possibly possess Caleb Rivers to call _him_?

Without entirely thinking it through, he was lifting the phone to his ear once more.

"Hello?"

"Toby, hey," Caleb replied quietly. It sounded as though he was in a busy place and did not want to be heard. "I've been meaning to call you. It's important."

His brain immediately went into 'worst case scenario' mode. Surely Spencer had told the girls what had happened by now. And if he knew Hanna half as well as he thought he did, Caleb would be privy to the information within a half an hour's time thereafter.

Yes, that had to be it. Caleb was calling to give him an earful about being a two-faced backstabbing piece of shit.

His instinct was to hang up right then. But some half-heartedly buried part of him knew that he would have this diatribe coming to him one way or another. And that he probably deserved it.

"Listen, Caleb…" he began tiredly, rubbing his hand over his face.

"I don't have much time," Caleb interrupted. "Look. Paige and I are trying to get to the bottom of all of this, and we could use your help. Have you had contact with Jenna?"

Jenna. Hmm. He hadn't thought of her in weeks.

"No…no, I haven't talked to her," he said distractedly.

Caleb sighed. "I figured. It was worth a shot, though. Hey, why don't you meet us later? I'll text you the address."

Guilt of this intensity was a rather foreign feeling to him, if he was being honest. He could feel it creating an uncomfortable knot in the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly felt the urge to throw up.

Caleb and Paige were trying to protect the people they loved. And here he was, doing essentially the opposite.

"All right," he muttered meekly at last, before quickly hanging up. He knew there was no way in Hell he'd be going…there would be repercussions for that. Mona would know, one way or another. Not only would _he_ have to face her wrath – but he would also be putting Caleb and Paige in danger. And for some reason, the thought of that only made his nausea increase twofold.

Feeling rather more miserable than he had upon waking up, he dressed himself quietly and began making his way downstairs to the Brew. It was a morning routine that he had never really considered out of the ordinary. Something about it felt funny now though, considering how much time Spencer spent there nowadays. This presented the possibility of a confrontation that neither of them were ready for.

He would just duck in and out as quickly as possible. Order and leave. No harm done.

He should have expected that this thought alone would jinx him. He had only just placed his order when the tiny bell above the door '_dinged_' precariously.

"Toby. Hey."

That voice. He knew that voice anywhere. Soft. Sweet. Melodic. It was as though someone had reached into his stomach and started tying his innards in knots.

His brain was immediately going into overdrive. How much did she know? Anything? Everything? Nothing? Surely Spencer must have told her, of all people.

He slowly turned to face her, fighting to keep his face neutral. "Hi, Em."

She smiled warmly, adjusting her purse into the crook of her shoulder. "How are you?" she asked softly. It was a tone of voice that implied the expectation of a difficult answer. It was the same tone that people used to use with him right after his mom passed.

"I'm okay," he replied uncertainly. She wasn't giving him much to work with. It was fairly obvious that she didn't know the whole story, but that maternal tone was reaching for _something_.

"Spencer told me you guys broke up," she stated sadly. "I don't really know anything else, but I've been worried about you, too."

The barista slid him his coffee, and he found himself wishing for an out. Normally he quite enjoyed talking to Emily, but the timing of everything right now just made everything seem so unbearable.

"I'm okay," he repeated, avoiding her eyes. If anyone would see the guilt hidden there, it would be her.

She reached out to touch his arm, and it was all he could do not to flinch. Though her hand was warm and comforting, he suddenly felt dirty.

"I know how much you love her," Emily said.

Love. The word bounced around in the forefront of his mind for a moment, as if unsure of how to categorize itself. It was such a strange term, really, with so many underlying nuances. It was generally considered to be a beautiful concept – something that saved lives and strengthened bonds.

But truthfully, the only thing _he_ saw there was betrayal. Manipulation. Greed. It may have been beautiful on the surface, but beneath all of that flowery poetry and prose it was a monster. Just like everything else.

Just like him.

"I – I have to go," he said blankly, a distinct burning feeling behind his eyes. He stepped out of her hold and made his way to maneuver past her.

"Toby – wait – "

He pretended not to hear. He was out the door midway through her plea, the obnoxious bell '_ding_'-ing in pitiful farewell.

Taking the stairs two at a time back up to his loft, he burst through the door and shut it quickly behind him, fighting to catch his breath. His heart felt as though he had just finished running a marathon, and the dry feeling in his mouth only furthered this comparison.

The horrible nauseated feeling had come back. Before he knew it, he was barreling towards the bathroom and collapsing to his knees in front of the porcelain throne. Gripping the toilet seat with such zeal that his knuckles turned white, he took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm his shaking frame. This must be what a panic attack felt like.

He sat there for a while, trying to bring his mind to a dull roar. The concern on Emily's face was enough to break him in that moment, and he hated himself for being so vulnerable. There was no room for these confusing feelings. None. Whatsoever. They were wasted emotions, existent only to prey on the weak.

When his stomach was at last feeling a bit more at ease, he was on his feet in an instant, grabbing a duffel bag and beginning to stuff it full of the first clothes his eyes fell on. It briefly crossed his mind to grab some other essentials, but he reasoned that he would buy them later. Wherever he was going.

What was he going to say to Mona? What excuse could he possibly come up with that would appease her?

He didn't care. He positively did not care anymore.

He needed time. Needed space. Space from Rosewood, the town that was full of monsters.

None more devilish than the one that stared back at him from the reflection of the mirror. He was the worst of them all. When had that happened? When had he become just like the people he had always hated?

He didn't know where he was going to go, but he'd figure it out when he got there.

Anywhere was better than here.


	3. I'll Never Get Put Back Together

_**A/N:** Okay. All caught up with my chapters now! I don't mean to be a drag, but the lack of reviews has been really discouraging. I'll keep writing it either way, but if you're enjoying it, I'd really love to know. Feedback helps us grow as writers. _

_xoxo_

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

_**DEAD TO ME (3x18)**_

...

_Start bending me, it's never enough_  
_'Til I feel all your pieces_  
_Start bending me, keep bending me_  
_Until I'm completely broken_

_Can you help me I'm bent_  
_I'm so scared that I'll never_  
_Get put back together_  
_Keep breaking me_  
_And this is how we will end_

_With you and me bent_

_("Bent" – Matchbox 20)_

* * *

_Hey champ. It's been a while since we talked, but I know today is usually a rough one for you. I just wanted to check in. _

The message had come at such a surprising time that the tone of his phone going off nearly sent him jumping out of his own skin. He hadn't even made it to the outskirts of Rosewood yet, and already someone was trying to pull him back. He had not spoken to his dad in weeks, and that was certainly no accident. Ever since Jenna had disappeared, his father and stepmother had been particularly cold and distant toward him. More than usual, that is to say. As though he had chased her out of Rosewood, himself.

He didn't mind much, if he was being honest. He did far better being on his own.

He had admittedly taken a moment or so to decode the vagueness of his father's words, and foolishly thought for a second that he knew something about what had happened with Spencer.

Then he had noticed the date stamp on his phone, and instantaneously felt his heart plummet into his stomach. It was the anniversary of his mother's death.

'_Check in_.' How very kind of him to do so through a text message.

With all that had happened as of late, he hadn't even noticed the date was approaching. He used to be so mindful of its ominous presence creeping up behind him. It was the same every year – like he was watching an old filmstrip and it had just finished rewinding, ready to play its course once more. Prepared to unearth the pain all over again, as heart wrenching as it had been the actual day that it happened.

He had dreamed of when this time would come. Of when he would finally cease to be continuously haunted by her memory, so debilitating in the month of November that he often felt incapacitated by grief. He'd somehow expected it to be a far more relieving feeling.

But instead it seared at him like a freshly forged sword, pulled directly from the fire. The guilt most of all – he felt ashamed that he had forgotten. That he had been too wrapped up in his own agenda to even realize it had been approaching. Just when he thought he was one step closer to escaping the whirlwind inside his brain, that irritating, pestilent feeling was returning once more. That annoyingly useless _guilt_…

He turned the truck around immediately, trying not to dwell on this feeling too long, to stop at the Rosewood Florist. From there, he made his way directly to the mausoleum.

And there he sat, for some indiscernible amount of time, his heart aching with every beat. Crypts were typically rather desolate, frightening sorts of places. Most people were terrified of the thought – being in a building that served the single purpose of housing corpses. The most permeating sort of silence was the kind that settled amongst the dead. He had expected to feel far more distraught as he sat there, staring at the marble marker for so long that the words began to swim in and out of focus.

But somehow, he felt inexplicably at peace. For the first time in several months, his mind was completely and eerily quiet. As though he had finally been able to close a heavy door to block out all of the sounds and stresses of the outside world.

The marble was cold to the touch. Much like her lifeless body would probably be. He instantly regretted allowing this thought to creep through, shuddering involuntarily at its implications. The memory of her lying utterly still inside the velvet lining of her casket had always been particularly bothersome to him. He had been so young at the time, peeking over the mahogany edge to get one last look at the woman who had given birth to him.

It was traumatizing. Completely and totally traumatizing. He had vowed from that day forward that he would never let his children look at the corpse of a loved one. It only served to tarnish the more valuable memories – the ones where those people still had color in their cheeks and smiles dancing across their lips. He had resented his dad for so long for letting him look. No. He would never put his children through that.

…If he ever had children. At the rate he was going, that was a very bleak possibility. There was only one girl who had ever loved him, and he had unceremoniously ripped her heart out only days ago. Self sabotage at its finest.

He was shaken from his reverie by the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket. Exhaling shakily to calm his nerves, he unearthed it from his jeans. Emily was calling him. Again. She was worried about him, for some God-forsaken reason. And he just wished she would leave it be.

Just as the call went to voicemail, his phone vibrated again. A text this time – from Mona. He didn't even bother opening the message, and instead powered his phone down entirely. It felt leaps and bounds above disrespect for him to be fiddling with technology while he sat here, mourning the loss of his mother.

Even so, some instinct deep within told him it was time to go.

He kissed the tips of his fingers and brushed them across the embossment of her name, before standing and making his way back to the truck.

It was nighttime now, and he found himself surprised at how long he had stayed with her. The emotional exhaustion he was feeling was enough to extinguish the flame that had been lit under his ass earlier in the day, and he was in no mood to drive. He had even ignored what he could have sworn was a figure ducking behind a tree nearby, knowing he had nowhere close to the energy it would require to deal with it. With his luck, it was probably Mona. And he didn't want to hear it from her, anyway.

Settling for the Edgewood Motor Court – for which he paid cash – he wandered into his room and collapsed on the bed. He stared at the ceiling for some time, holding back the tears that usually accompanied this day every year. He feared that once he started, he may never stop. The proverbial floodgates would open and everything would pour out. And the magnitude and severity of all the feelings he was suppressing was likely to kill him.

'_I've never had a safe place to land, but now I feel like I do_.'

"Don't," he growled irritably to no one in particular. Himself, most likely.

There was no time to think about her right now. None.

But that simple statement had resonated so deeply within him, too, that he could never quite get it out of his head. Safety was relative – but when he was with her, he often felt untouchable. Like nothing could reach him as long as she was around. Not even Mona.

The sharp ringing of the motel phone made him jump in surprise. Perplexed and utterly bewildered as to who would be calling him, he slowly reached out to take the receiver. "Hello?"

"I tried calling. And texting."

His free hand curled into a fist, gripping angrily at nothing in particular. Something about her voice these days just made his muscles go rigid.

"How did you find me?"

"Your biggest flaw has always been failing to cover your tracks," Mona muttered peevishly. "No matter. I know you'll be back."

_Don't count on it_.

"While you're on your little sabbatical, I highly suggest you look at your email," she stated, the tone of her voice lightening with such abruptness that he wondered if he was talking to the same person. She sounded borderline giddy now. "She fell for it."

He furrowed his brow, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to reach for his duffel. The laptop was still running on battery thankfully, and powered on immediately. She had sent him a video file.

"What is this?" he murmured.

"You'll see." Now she sounded as though she had overdosed on a pound of sugar.

Part of him didn't want to see it. The other part of him feared that his imagination of what it _might _be was a lot worse than what it actually _was_. Curiosity took the better of him.

He recognized the setting immediately. It was the dingy, empty apartment that the key belonged to. Mona had always talked about wanting to make something out of it, but nothing had ever come of it. He had always just suspected that she had some sort of rogue motive and thought it better not to ask.

"You put a camera in there?" he asked.

"Just watch."

He could hear the distinct fumbling of the key turning in the lock, and his breath caught in his throat. The door creaked open, and there she stood. Spencer, her appearance in utter disarray. She looked as though she hadn't slept in weeks. The hair that she usually kept so prim and proper was ratty and tangled. Her clothes disheveled and probably worn for days at a time.

But worst of all was her eyes. The eyes that had once been so alight with life and strength were now hollow beyond recognition. There was a darkness there – a despair that he immediately empathized with. She was alone. In every sense of the word.

"Why did you do this?" he whispered in disbelief.

"Several reasons," Mona replied casually. "One, to lead her on a false trail. Two, to show her that you've moved on. You know she has a PI trailing you, right?"

The shadow in the cemetery. Though he now had an explanation, he could not find the effort to care.

"Anyway. This was the best way to show her that you're really gone. I think she was halfway expecting you to leave something behind to give her hope." She giggled mirthlessly. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen…"

He watched as Spencer raised her hands to her face, choking out a gut-wrenching sob that echoed against the bare walls of the abandoned apartment. Mindlessly, he reached out to touch the screen of his computer – to touch the two-dimensional image of her figure – feeling as though a lump had lodged itself in his throat.

"Turn your phone back on. I'll be in touch."

With that, Mona was gone. He had almost forgotten she was there. Slowly lowering the receiver from his face, his eyes did not leave the recording before him. Spencer was crying with reckless abandon now, sliding down the wall into a sitting position. She hugged her legs tightly to her chest and pressed her face into her knees. He swallowed hard, attempting to push the knot in his throat back down. He wanted to tell her not to cry. That he wasn't worth it.

But somehow – to her – he _was_.

"How could you do this to me?" she cried softly, her words staccatoed by the intensity of her tears. She continued to sit there, each sob ripping into him like claws tearing at his soul. He told himself he should turn it off – knew he should turn it off – but he could not look away. He had never seen her like this before, and some long-buried instinct was telling him that he had to be there for her. Even if it was some time after-the-fact, from a long distance away. It almost felt like some unspoken duty.

She sat there for a while. Longer than he was comfortable with. He had chewed so roughly on his lower lip that he could now taste blood in his mouth. His heart was pounding in his chest like a jackhammer, and he was afraid it was about to burst right out of his ribcage.

When her cries had lessened considerably, she stood, impatiently pushing away her tears, looking accusatorily in the direction of the camera. It was as if she knew it was there. There was a fiery fury in her eyes now – one that he had never seen before.

"You were the one person I trusted never to hurt me," she stated coldly, a residual shaking still apparent in her voice. Nonetheless, the emptiness of her tone chilled him to his core. "You're dead to me."

The feed cut out.

He sat there silently for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Tears that he had not realized were present were now streaming down his face, landing precariously into pools on his mouse pad. What he was feeling was so intense – so outrageously unbearable – that it was starting to push through the numbness he had forced himself to feel for the past several weeks. It was likened to a small chisel finally having chipped away the entirety of the foundational structure upon which he had built his wall. And pieces were now crumbling helplessly to the ground as it began to fall apart.

'_We just need to teach them a lesson. Show them what it's like to be manipulated and what it's like to feel alone_.'

Mona's words from long ago echoed within his brain, bouncing back and forth like a steady game of pong. Her version of revenge was so much different than his, and it had been from the beginning. He was just too stupid to realize it until he was already in too deep to dig his way back out.

Suddenly, he hated her with ever fiber of his being. He had never wished death upon anybody before – but now, he wanted nothing more than to kill her with his bare hands. Had she been in the room, he certainly would not have been able to contain himself. He would have been in prison by morning.

He leapt quickly to his feet, picking up the laptop and hurling it into the closest wall. It sparked dangerously as the screen shattered, making a desperate buzzing noise as it toppled crudely to the floor. He didn't care. Something inside him was erupting with fury, and he knew he would no longer be able to suppress it. The volcano within had finally reached its boiling point.

He was screaming – some sort of animalistic, raging battle cry – as he ripped the phone out of the wall. He pushed over the nightstand, smashing the lamp against the bedpost, and embedded his fist into the poorly constructed plaster of the wall beside him. He had no idea what was happening. It was as though he had blacked out and lost all control of his own body. Of his own brain.

Nothing. Nothing. _NOTHING_ Spencer had _ever _done to _anybody _warranted the amount of heartbreak he had just witnessed. The only person he had ever seen that bruised and broken beyond repair was himself. He knew what it was like to feel helpless and desperate and to just wish it would all end. He had considered it more times than he could count. Had fantasized about traipsing down to the basement to unearth his dad's Remington semi-automatic shotgun and just pop one off into his brain.

It was rock bottom. It was precisely what it felt like to be at the very lowest point in your life, that you hardly think you can survive another day. That even breathing is painful.

That was where Spencer was now. And he had single-handedly put her there.

He collapsed into a piteous heap on the floor, curling into a fetal position much like Spencer had done. He was bawling so heavily that his throat was going raw. He hadn't cried this hard since his mother had died. Maybe even before that.

He didn't know who he hated more: Mona or himself. Mona may have fed him the bullshit that got him involved in this entire mess, but he was the one who bought into it. He was the one who listened. He was the one who chose to play along.

He had been fooling himself. What he had been doing – the person he had become – he was not strong. He was _weak_. Perhaps at the weakest he had ever been in his entire life. He was sick and vengeful and past the point where he could ever have a prayer of being redeemed.

He didn't even _deserve_ to be redeemed. He deserved to suffer. Just as much as Spencer was suffering. More, even.

He had become the monster he had always hated. Had done things that were beyond the realm of humanity. Had given into anger in such a completely abandoning way that he had surpassed the point of turning back. If Hell was a real place, there was assuredly a seat with his name on it.

He had been manipulated into selling his soul to the devil. And no matter what he did – no matter how hard he tried to find redemption – he was forever destined to be a demon.

His eyes were burning and his throat was sore by the time the sun began to rise. He could not even find the strength to pick himself up and lie down in the bed. His mind was racing far too swiftly for him to rest, anyway.

His mother would have been so disappointed in him. She would have hated the person he had become.

But there was no way that she could possibly hate him more than he already hated himself.


	4. Save Me From The Nothing I've Become

_**A/N:** First off – I know it's short and probably not my best, but I have so little to work with right now that it's been rather difficult. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless._

_Quick Note. I know that I said these chapters would be "one-shots," but they've kind of been overlapping with one another and having more continuity than I thought they would. This worked out ONLY because Toby hasn't been on the show, so I've sort of been able to write the entire thing from my own brain._

_Please just be reminded that in coming episodes, that may change again. The chapters may actually START to be mutually exclusive. For anyone who doesn't know what that means – simply stated, the new chapters may not necessarily relate to chapters before them, and may actually have contradicting information._

_If/when this happens, I will definitely let you know ahead of time in the author's note. I'm just expecting that when Toby comes back on the show, we will have answers that we've been wondering about for the past few weeks. And some of the information that I've written will certainly become obsolete._

_If you have any questions about what I mean, just shoot me a PM or leave it in the review._

_xoxo_

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_**WHAT BECOMES OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED (3x19)**_

...

_Wake me up inside_

_Call my name and save me from the dawn_

_Bid my blood to run_

_Before I come undone_

_Save me from the nothing I've become_

_("Bring Me to Life" - Evanescence)_

* * *

Seventy-two hours. Three days. That's all the time that Mona allowed Toby to quietly grieve by himself. Not that he necessarily minded – being cooped up in the motel room was doing very little to ease his racing mind and heal his wounded heart. In fact, he'd only been thinking in overdrive, if anything. It was an unwelcomed rollercoaster ride that always ended the same way: with him plummeting back into dark tunnels with no end in sight.

He knew that he couldn't go on like this. He picked up the pieces of his soul and did his best to glue them back together, hoping he would have some time before the cracks broke apart once more.

So when Mona called him, he wasn't as irritated as he probably would have been ordinarily. Being cooped up certainly hadn't helped anything. It was probably time to let it go and leave the pain behind.

He packed his stuff up – his ruined laptop be damned – and headed back to Rosewood.

Despite all of the complicated things that he was feeling, Rosewood was still the last place he wanted to be. He had made it clear to Mona that he didn't plan to stick around for long – that he aimed to head somewhere else. She didn't seem to mind, which only served to frighten him all the more. If she was agreeing this easily, it was only because there was something in it for her, too.

He pushed his way into their headquarters, an intense sense of déjà vu befalling him. Mona was studying some blueprints on the computer, not even turning around to greet him.

"Nice to see you return to the land of the living," she said flatly. "Hopefully you're back on your A-Game now."

He winced. He hated when she used that corny double-entendre.

"I'm fine," he grumbled, making his way to read over her shoulder. He could see the sketches on the screen more clearly now, taking note of marks in the margin. "Rosewood Hospital?"

"Ding, ding, ding," she muttered sarcastically. "We have a winner."

He certainly hadn't missed her condescension when he was away. Not in the slightest. He rolled his eyes and wandered back in the direction of the entryway to keep watch at the door. It was about all he was good for when Mona was immersed in plotting something. She didn't want his help, and she certainly didn't want him to hover.

"Your precious little girlfriend attacked me. FYI."

Toby glanced over his shoulder in her direction, doing his best to keep his face impassive. That word – 'girlfriend' – stung him unexpectedly.

"What do you mean?"

"Academic Decathlon," Mona mumbled. "Showed up and tackled me across the table."

Though he knew he probably shouldn't, he couldn't help but be amused. Spencer had always been feisty, and a little heartbreak was clearly not enough to take all the fight out of her. He kept picturing the altercation in his head on repeat, a ghost of a smile teasing his lips. He couldn't deny that Mona had it coming.

She couldn't see his face, but it was as though she read his mind. Her next comment was purposely meant to knock him down a peg. "Dr. Do-Me-A-Little was with her."

She succeeded. He gritted his teeth together involuntarily as Wren's pompous face popped up in his brain, a pretentious smirk on his lips.

He wanted to ask for clarification. But he knew that it would be a lose-lose situation – especially with Mona. If she thought he cared too much, she'd poke at his vulnerable underbelly until he retreated with his tail between his legs. If she thought he didn't care _enough_, she'd push the envelope until she got a rise out of him.

So he opted to remain silent, instead picturing his fist knocking that smug look off the doctor's face. It was enough to make him feel better for the moment.

"All right," she declared with finality, leaping to her feet. "I have a job for you, Cavanaugh."

He took a deep breath, and the words tumbled off of his tongue as easily as they ever had. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

Rosewood Hospital. A place he had spent far more time than he'd care to admit, and a place he wished he'd never have to set foot in again.

Mona had explained the layout of the ventilation system to the best of her ability. When he had tried to ask questions, she merely shot him down.

"Just be there," she had said peevishly. "I'll give you more instructions later."

Clearly she didn't trust him with the more intricate details of her plot yet. Perhaps it had something to do with the way his resolve had been crumbling for the past several days. Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that he'd vehemently disagree to the task at hand if it were explained to him in advance.

Either way, he had done as he was told: found the entry point to the air duct system from the third floor and worked his way through the hospital. Crawling across the flimsy grates was anxiety-inducing – he was 180 pounds of well-toned muscle mass and he feared the vents would give way every time he crept over a new room. Surely it wasn't logical for him to be the one doing this. Mona was much smaller and more limber, and would have been a more suitable candidate. She was smarter than that – she would never have chosen him to do something like this unless there was some bigger outcome on the horizon. The decision had obviously been made strategically. He had to be the one to accomplish this – whatever it was – in order to prove his loyalty to her once more.

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. What was going to come next was surely some dastardly punishment for his behavior. And try as he might not to think about it, the idea just kept pushing its way back into the forefront of his mind.

He sat there for sometime – just above the North lobby – wondering what the hell he was doing. Not just in the immediacy of the task at hand, but in the broader picture. He had blindly followed orders for so long that now, after everything that had happened, he was beginning to wonder why. It was like voluntarily joining the army, only to find that you have lost sight as to _why_ by the time you enter the frontlines. It was the most dangerous time to second-guess your convictions. But it was exactly what he was doing.

When he received her final text, he wasn't sure what he had been expecting.

But it certainly wasn't this.

'_Jason DiLaurentis, room 305. Take him_.'

His heart skipped several beats, and he found it difficult to breathe. He had known all along that there was some devilish intention on Mona's part to follow through with this particular scheme. And he was beginning to understand precisely what that intent was.

What little strength was left in Spencer was going to crumble if he did this. Her boyfriend – her brother – both ripped unceremoniously from her hands before she had a moment to blink. It was the ultimate test.

Part of him wanted to pretend he never received the message, but that would be foolish. Mona would be dumping him at Red Coat's feet in an instant, giving her full authority to dispose of him at her own discretion. It didn't have to be said aloud – he knew that this was his last chance.

The thought made him nauseous.

He made his way through the ventilation system to the appropriate room, peering through the grate at Jason's broken figure on the hospital bed. He could see now that the duct had dipped down to floor-level as opposed to hovering overhead. At least it would be far easier to subdue him this way than it would be to thrust him up through the ceiling. Studying the vent in front of him, he saw that it had already been loosened. Perhaps by Mona. Perhaps by sheer dumb luck.

Emily was talking to Jason in undertones, but he couldn't quite make out what she was saying. There were echoes of voices all around him in this metal chamber, some reverberating from several rooms away.

And then she took his cup and stepped away. It was now or never.

He pressed the door open noiselessly, doubling over to push his body through the opening. Jason's eyes were focused somewhere else, oblivious to his arrival. He took advantage of this, swooping in and immediately pressing one gloved hand to Jason's mouth.

The elder boy struggled, but only in slight – he was clearly weakened by whatever accident had brought him here in the first place. His eyes grew wide as they met Toby's, and he realized that Jason was seeing him – the true him – for the very first time.

He began to peel him off of the bed, the neck brace falling away from his neck in the process. Jason had such little fight in him that this was proving to be easier than he ever could have anticipated. After a bit of a struggle, he had pulled both himself and Spencer's brother through the air duct once more, allowing the vent to slam shut behind them.

It was just in time, too. He secured Jason surreptitiously against him, his hand still tight over his mouth. "Don't make a sound," he warned, hoping that the threat sounded legitimate enough that Jason would obey.

The girls had entered the room once more, ripping the curtain aside. They stared helplessly at the empty bed before them, eyes alight with fear.

Even Spencer was there. The look of horror on her face was more than he could bear. He pushed the thought of her aside as quickly as he possibly could.

He began to drag Jason backwards, his grip still preventing him from making any noise. Once they were a safe distance away, Toby took a moment to rest, collapsing against the wall of the duct with Jason practically in his lap.

"I'm here on Mona's orders," Toby breathed, surprised to realize how winded he was. "But I don't know what she has planned."

It was the truth. But he had never been able to deflect his own blame so easily before.

"I'm going to move my hand. Please don't yell for help. Or Mona will kill both of us, and you know it."

Jason's eyes darted towards Toby's, but there was some element of understanding there. Toby released him and immediately Jason crawled backwards to get a safe distance away.

"What does she want?" he demanded quietly. Toby shook his head half-heartedly.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

There was a pause.

"Does…does Spencer?..."

"Yes," Toby growled irritably. "Mona saw to that."

Jason was pressing his lips together in a tight line, as though making several realizations all at once.

"You have no idea what this has done to her," he murmured. "She's a completely different person now. A shell of who she used to be."

The comment was undeniably painful, but Toby fought to ignore it.

"Did you ever love her?" he asked incredulously.

The question bounced around in his brain for a moment, unable to find a secure place to make itself at home.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

Jason inhaled sharply, as if digesting the gravity of this meager answer. "Then why did you do it?"

Toby shrugged nonchalantly. "What Mona wants, Mona gets," he declared simply.

Jason shifted uncomfortably, his hand massaging the back of his wounded neck. His eyes were still burning into Toby accusatorily. "Did she kill Garrett and Ian?" he whispered.

Toby shook his head shortly. "I have no idea."

As if on cue, Toby's phone buzzed. It was another text from Mona.

'_Tell him we're his only hope at making it out alive._'

He fumbled with the phone for a moment before handing it to Jason. The elder read it over, his face twisting into a confused grimace. He looked to Toby for answers.

"Is this true? Or are you guys tricking me?"

He wished he had a better answer. But he didn't.

Jason gulped quietly, his eyes pleading. "Can I trust you?"

The question was sharp, like a knife to exposed flesh. He took a deep breath.

"I'm telling you everything I know. Mona is the one you should be worrying about."

Jason seemed to consider this, the wheels turning in his brain at a million miles a minute. Toby couldn't necessarily blame him – clearly he had just narrowly escaped his own death, only to be cornered into making a life-saving decision once more. He could either be walking right into the same trap he'd just evaded…Or he could be approaching the greatest protection he could ever wish for.

"I'll let you make the choice," Toby decided at last. "You can come with me to Mona – or I can drop you on the outskirts of town and tell her you fought me off and got away."

Jason's eyes roved over Toby's figure, as if assessing the likelihood of his claim. "You'd do that?" he asked quietly.

Toby squared his jaw. He knew what he was risking by giving Jason the option. But he knew how much more devastated he would be if it turned out that Mona was lying. If it just so happened that she had made the attempt to lure him into her web, and Toby had been the one to bring him there. He would never forgive himself for doing that to Spencer.

"I don't want to see her suffer anymore," he murmured.

Jason knew that he was talking about Spencer. His face had softened slightly, and he continued to study him in a way that made Toby rather uncomfortable.

At long last, he inhaled deeply and exhaled with a loud '_whoosh_'. He seemed to be on the verge of making a very precarious decision.

He turned to Toby, something fierce in his eyes. "All right. Take me to Mona."


	5. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**_A/N:_**

_Hey guys. Sorry, but this is just an author's note. I know, I know – I hate when people do that, too._

_Anyway. The show has been depressing the crap out of me, and we STILL haven't seen Toby since 3x16 (I don't count the Alison flashback). I'm left with very little material to work with, and all kinds of barrier-inducing feels, but I'd like to continue writing this._

_So I'm going to watch the new episode tonight and decide just what direction I can possibly go in. The next chapter MAY be a compendium of the last couple episodes that I've missed, depending on what we're given with 3x22. It might just be the only way that I could churn out a full-length chapter with what little material I'm working with right now.  
_

_I love all of you! Happy PLL day!_


	6. Bound to Get Burned

_**A/N:** Okay! Got a chapter out. I'm still super behind, and there's no way I'll catch up before tomorrow's finale. But I wanted to get something out one more time. I'm sorry I dropped the ball on this series, guys. The show was just frustrating me SO MUCH that Toby was NEVER on it, and I started running out of ideas. I also got really involved in my AU story, Sweet Child of Mine. Please check it out, if you haven't done so. _

_I'd like to wrap it up after seeing the finale, though. I'm going to try to still go back and cover the missing chapters, but I'll have some hindsight helping to drive the story (I hope.) _

_Anyway, here you go!_

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_**Hot Water (3x20)**_

...

_Where there is desire_

_There is gonna be a flame_

_Where there is a flame_

_Someone's bound to get burned_

_But just because it burns_

_Doesn't mean you're gonna die_

_You gotta get up and try_

_("Try" – P!nk)_

* * *

He hadn't the faintest idea of what would be done with Jason.

He'd brought him back to headquarters, like Mona had commanded and Jason had requested – and vacated before he became any more involved than necessary. He didn't want any part of it. He would continue to assist Mona with the more innocuous tasks that she required of him, stupid things like sending a text or delivering a package.

But he was no longer going to be around while somebody was being hurt. After being asked to send a warning to Lucas in the form of a three-ton SUV, the gravity of what he had gotten himself into had somehow begun to take shape. It had started to become too real for him. And as numb as he was feeling as of late, he could not simply turn off the entirety of his humanity.

But he just left him there – abandoned him – watching as his sea-green eyes met with his just before Mona shut the door between them. Jason clearly still wasn't sure whether he could believe a word that Toby had said, and probably for good reason. Toby had enough skeletons in his closet that he didn't have a right to be angry when someone expressed a little uncertainty.

He wondered distantly if it was wise to leave him with her. Maybe if he stayed, he could deter Mona from making it worse than it had to be. Could manipulate her into re-working the plan without revealing too much of his own ambivalence. Hell, he had done it before – and as far as he knew, she suspected nothing.

Or she knew _precisely_ what he was doing, and had some bigger plan in mind to punish him at a later date.

In any case, there was a bothersome balloon of guilt swelling in his abdomen, and all he could think about was what he could have done differently to ensure Jason's safety. Ways he could protect him. It was what a good person would have done – it was what _he _should have done. If he thought the chances of Spencer ever forgiving him were slim _before_, they'd be nigh indiscernible after putting her brother in harm's way.

But the whole "guilt" issue would be moot, anyway, in the end. Anything Mona had planned, anything _Red Coat_ had planned – it happened, whether anyone else disagreed or not.

So he ran. Like the yellow-bellied piece of shit that he was, he took off to save his own hide.

But he realized quickly that he had nowhere else to go.

He drove his car around aimlessly for a while, hoping some unconsidered solution would pop out at him. The line of storefronts in downtown made him ache inexplicably with some distant nostalgia, and he found himself rather missing the coffee from The Brew.

But he couldn't stop. There was too much that could happen, and he couldn't risk it. He could see one of them, and make the whole mess that much more awkward and inconvenient for everyone. It was bad enough that Emily had been texting him, wanting to know why he and Spencer had broken up; if he ran into her again, he wouldn't be able to sneak away a second time. She wouldn't let him.

There wasn't much to do in Rosewood when everyone hated you.

Everyone except for _her_, anyway.

And it was a mind-numbingly lonely feeling to realize that the only person he could turn to had been dead for years.

He usually went to visit her when times got hardest, and, well, nothing about his life had been easy as of late. She would have been devastated to hear about what he'd been up to and the damage he'd been inflicting. Would have pulled him close in a hug, sighing a bit melodramatically but stroking his hair supportively nonetheless. She would have said, "_You got yourself into this mess. Now you have to figure out how to get yourself out._"

The trip to the cemetery passed by quickly with his head lost somewhere on Memory Lane. He hopped out of the car, being sure to glance over his shoulder to check that no one was watching, and headed inside. When _was_ the last time he was here? Had it really only been days ago? It was starting to feel like a lifetime had passed in lieu of that short span.

As he approached her resting place, that same eerie calm began to settle around him. There was something oddly comforting about sharing his darkest thoughts with someone who no longer had the ability to judge him. Not directly, anyway.

Just as he made his way to brush his fingers across the embossing of her name, as was routine, something caught his eye. There was an etching there that had not been there last time.

Her marble nameplate had been vandalized. And it was _his_ name, carved haphazardly into the surface of the stone. The work was shoddy and hastened at best, as if done by someone who knew they only had a moment before they'd be caught.

He knew the culprit immediately.

A whirlwind of emotions spun through him in that moment, a merciless cyclone of hazy confusion. He was angry at her audacity, but sympathetic of the hostility she was feeling. Infuriated by her method for revenge, but understanding of why she felt the need to do it. He felt betrayed – stabbed in the back by the one person he had never feared – but he deserved it. Anything she could possibly do to lash out against him…none of it compared with what _he _had done.

What he was still doing.

The mental image of her exacting this handiwork was painful. It was like trying to picture something that could never exist in reality. It was not _her_ – it was not the Spencer that he knew.

But that was his fault, too. He had destroyed that Spencer. All on his own.

Hot tears sprang to his eyes, and he didn't quite know where they came from. From the rage, or the guilt, or the self-loathing. He could feel his blood boiling in his veins, and he wasn't sure he had ever felt so super-charged with so much unwanted, inaccessible power in his life. Power that he could not touch, caged behind the bars of his own self-inflicted prison. It was the kind of power that didn't know what to do with itself, wasting away in a dysfunctional heart. It was foreign and unrecognizable, and only served to frighten him all the more.

He was pulling the wilting hydrangeas out of their sconces before he knew what he was doing, tossing them carelessly over his shoulders as he choked back frustrated sobs. His mom deserved better than this – better than a marred headstone and dying flowers – better than a good-for-nothing son like him – better than everything he had ever put her through.

Spencer deserved better, too.

And him…well, _he_ deserved what was coming to him.

Once the floor was littered with the leaves and petals of the mess he had made, he was stomping out of the mausoleum. The serenity that he had originally sought and so desperately craved was no longer here. Quite the opposite, actually. And if he stayed, he would break.

The crisp night air did little to soothe him, but upon taking several deep breaths, he found himself de-escalating in slight. Perhaps this was one panic attack he could successfully avoid.

He collapsed into the driver seat of his truck, pulling the visor mirror down to assess his features. His once-lively azure eyes now looked empty and hollow, as if some metaphorical light within them had been turned off. His cheekbones were sharp against his flesh, looking like they were moments from slicing straight through face. Chapped lips, scarred chin, unruly stubble. But the unfamiliar pallor was the worst part – he had always had rather agreeable skin, a generous olive tone to his complexion. Now he looked as white as a ghost.

It was like he had aged fifteen years since the last time he looked into a mirror.

He slammed the visor back up and kicked his truck into gear. One of the last remaining emotions from the mausoleum was the sheer hopelessness that had befallen him: his mother's resting place had been his only sanctuary, and now it was unforgettably tainted. He couldn't go back there. Not in this state, anyway. Not until something else in his life – _anything_ else in his life – stopped tearing him apart at the seams. He'd have to build some of his resolve back up before facing that display again, or he'd never make it back out in one piece.

His phone chimed in his pocket, and it was the proverbial last straw. He slammed his palms against the steering wheel, a guttural growl ripping past his vocal cords. It was this goddamn phone that had him in this mess in the first place. All he wanted to do was toss it into the Rosewood Tributary and watch it float to the bottom, some random church choir singing Hallelujah behind him as his soul breathed a sigh of relief.

If it was Mona, so help him…

'_Apple Rose Grille. There's something you should see._'

The number was blocked. It couldn't be Mona – she took great pride in sharing her ideas and discoveries with him, her insurmountable ego swelling at her own ingenuity. And this surely would have been no different.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was intrigued. He began the five-minute trek to the appropriate strip downtown, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. His brain was working in exhausted overdrive. It was like crawling the last few yards to the finish line, unable to sprint but unable to surrender. He wasn't ready to give up. Because giving up would mean that he ceased to have purpose. And this was all he had anymore.

He put the truck in park some distance down the road, away from the streetlights. The Grille was still within sight distance, but hopefully whatever he was meant to see would not be able to see_ him_.

So he waited. Five minutes passed. Then ten. He was growing antsy, ready to abandon his truck and walk straight over there to see what the fuss was about, when it became painfully clear what he was meant to see.

Spencer was moseying down the sidewalk, a long-forgotten smile teasing her lips. And right there, meandering alongside her, was Wren Kingston.

He fought to keep his composure. Surely it was nothing to be concerned about – she had moved on from that British bastard a long time ago. There were no romantic feelings for him anymore, right? That's what she had told him before, anyway. After all, how could she rewind the past year as though it hadn't happened? It was easier said than done. He would know. He'd been trying to do the same thing.

But she was _smiling_. She was –

_Kissing him_.

It was like someone had reached into his ribcage and ripped his heart from his chest, and he was stunned by his own confusion.

This was not supposed to matter. This was never supposed to matter. He was never supposed to have feelings for her – he was told to get close, gain her trust, get information –

But it wasn't that simple, was it? As much as he had wished it to be true, he had never been able to be one hundred per cent apathetic about anything in his life. He had tried when his mom died – surely having _no _emotion was easier than being suffocated by it. He had fought to shut it off. But it hadn't worked.

It had never worked.

And now – sitting here, watching her play tonsil hockey with Dr. Douchebag and smile in a way that she used to smile at him – it became glaringly obvious.

It had _never_ been as simple as just infiltrating her world. She had been so, so, so much more than that. She had infiltrated _his _world. Had gotten under his skin. And he couldn't shake her. It was like trying to run from someone you're bungeed to. The further away you try to get, the harder you snap back, and the more painful the collision.

That was how he was feeling. Just when he thought he had put enough distance safely between them to make sense of the jumbled mess in his head…

It took every ounce of willpower not to floor the gas pedal and run Wren down right then and there. There was some morbid pleasure in the fleeting fantasy of his truck's front bumper pinning Wren against the brick building, watching him gasp for air.

It was a dark thought. But he didn't care.

They were making their way back down the sidewalk now, away from him. And with their retreating figures, the adrenaline began to gradually dissolve, fizzling from a roaring fire to a flickering flame. He was beyond fatigue now – he hardly had the energy to feel anything else anymore. He had barely slept, and he was growing delirious.

He glanced in his rearview mirror before reversing, and the flash of red that darted behind his car made him slam on the brake unexpectedly. His whole body jolted forward, and he swung around to look out the back window. He knew instinctively that she was long gone already, but his eyes darted across the town square in hopes of catching a glimpse of that red hooded overcoat…

His phone chirped again, and suddenly an ominous feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew the number would be blocked once more – but he knew who it was this time.

'_She moved on. Now it's your turn. Cut your losses, or I'll cut your throat_.'


End file.
